Grace for Drowning

The two of us rolled across the mat, desperately jockeying for position. Brock had the upper hand, and was trying to work himself on top of me so he could trap my leg against his body. He was going for a kneebar — a lock that hyper extends the knee — which can be one of the most devastating moves if it goes too far. I fought with everything I had, desperately struggling to keep him to one side of my hips. He was incredibly powerful, and he displayed an uncanny amount of patience. He knew we were evenly matched down here, and if he forced his way between my legs, I wouldn't have the strength to stop him. Blood was raging in my veins, and all my muscles burned. Even in that moment, mere inches from defeat, I felt a powerful sense of euphoria. You're never more alive when you're staring out over the brink.

His grip weakened ever so slightly, and I spotted my opportunity. With a great heave, I yanked myself free and shot to my feet, stumbling backward. He followed with a snarl. I could have tried to use that opening to my advantage and get him in a lock of my own, but the truth was, I was a little shaken. Besides, I'm a striker at heart, and I knew that when we were on our feet, I had the advantage. I wouldn't underestimate him again.

The struggle on the ground had left us both panting, and we were content to slow things down until the bell rung to end the round. As I returned to my corner, my eyes once again returned to Grace. There was concern on her face now, but I once again found a smile. I had this.

"What the hell was that?" Tony asked, handing me a bottle.

I shrugged. "He got lucky."

"No, you got cocky. You wanted to go for a fancy knockout, and you nearly paid the price."

I sucked in some water, just enough to wet my mouth. Tony was right. "It won't happen again."

"You're damn right it won't."

I shook my head. "He must have been training like a motherfucker. His ground game is through the roof compared to last time."

"So don't let him take you down again. Keep your distance."

"That's the plan," I replied.

The bell rang again, and Brock leapt up, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he moved to the center. The break had done him good. He looked fresh and full of energy. That first round performance must have buoyed his spirits, and rightly so. He was in this, which was more than a lot of people would have expected.

I changed tactics, doing everything I could to keep space between the two of us. Whenever he tried to charge, I kept him at bay with long defensive punches that forced him backward. They weren't really capable of causing serious damage, but that was fine. I wasn't trying to hurt him yet. I just needed to keep him from getting close and tire him out. My fitness is second to none. I can go five rounds with the best of them and still have some left in the tank. But a lot of guys don't have that luxury, and when they get tired, they get sloppy.

After a minute of dancing around the ring, I could see the frustration on his face. He'd thought he had a winning strategy, but now he couldn't execute it. I was too tall, too fast on my feet, and I didn't make the same mistake twice. His breath was coming short and sharp and his skin was slick with sweat. I was wearing him down and he knew it. So he went to plan B, which was exactly what I was waiting for.

He began throwing a series of brutal head-high kicks. If you watch a lot of kung-fu movies, you're probably under the impression that fancy kicks win fights, and it's true, if they connect, they can end things on the spot. But they're also slow and they leave you vulnerable, which means you need to be pretty sure you're landing a winner if you want to use them without getting punished. Brock had no such certainty. I let the first few swing through open air, content to learn his rhythm. On the fourth one, I struck. Rather than darting backward like he expected, I ducked forward, taking the blow on my shoulder and kicking his other leg out from under him. He dropped to the canvas, and I was on top of him before he had time to blink. He tried to protect his face, but it was useless. My position was too strong. Four solid blows later, and the referee ended it.

The crowd exploded.

Charlie stepped back up into the ring and shot me a quick smile before taking my hand and raising it above my head. "The winner by knockout...Logan Anderson!"

The medic was already on stage tending to Brock. I didn't think I'd done any serious damage. Sure, there was blood running down his face, but he was already conscious and sitting up.

I took a moment to soak it in, reveling in the last seconds of that glorious hi

gh as it gradually bled away, and then Grace was there next to the ring.

"That was freaking awesome!" she said, pulling me in for a kiss. She looked like I felt — skin flushed, eyes blazing with excitement. I loved seeing her so animated.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I replied.

"I did. A lot. Although for a minute there, I thought maybe he had you."

I nodded. "I underestimated him a little, and he took advantage."

Her smile grew sultry and she leaned in close. "That's a coincidence. I was hoping to give you the opportunity to take advantage later. You know, assuming you have a little left in the tank for me."

With enough testosterone circling my system to kill an elephant, I had to resist the urge to throw her over my shoulder and drag her into the back office at that very moment.

"I always have something left for you," I replied.

"Excellent." She glanced back at the bar where a crowd was now forming. "Well, I should probably get back to it, but I'll see you in an hour or so."

"Definitely."

I waved to the crowd as I made my way back to the locker room. I wasn't exactly the most fan friendly fighter on the Final Blow roster, but they all knew that by now and they didn't seem to begrudge me a little eccentricity. If they really wanted autographs, they knew where I worked.